Murder Has Consequences

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  “Brooklyn. I’m a cop now.”

  Paula stopped slicing meat and rested her hand on the counter. “Holy shit, girls, you hear that. Bugs Donovan is a cop. In Brooklyn no less.”

  A few of Paula’s sisters smiled at Frankie and nodded. One of them blew him a kiss.

  “All right, what’ll it be, guys?”

  “Same as always for me,” I said.

  “Large Italian, extra hot and no pickles,” Frankie said.

  “You got it. Be ready in a few. Grab some chips while you’re waiting.”

  I got a few bags of Herr’s potato chips—a local brand—one barbecue and one regular, then picked up two bottles of water and set them on the counter. Frankie reached for money to pay, but I smacked him. “No way your money’s good in this town.”

  Paula had our sandwiches in a few minutes and we took them across the street to a small park bench under an old oak tree. It was torture just waiting to unwrap the subs.

  “So what’s got you worried, Bugs?”

  “Borelli. Something’s not right. He started out good enough, but now he seems to be focusing on you, or me. I know how cops work. If they think they know who did it, they’ll focus on that person only and try to make a case.”

  “I don’t see the problem. Neither of us did it.”

  “Okay, so we didn’t do it, but guess what, I hit the Bobby with a mug of beer and kicked the shit out of him in front of maybe twenty witnesses. Then I proclaimed, and very loudly I might add, that I’d kill him if he ever said anything like that again, or some such nonsense.”

  “Okay, so that could be a problem.” I took the biggest bite I could from the sub and relished every damn bit of flavor.

  “Tell me you’ve got some brilliant ideas, Nicky, because we need them.”

  “That bad? For real?”

  Bugs put his head in his hands. “Nicky, I can’t even begin to tell you…”

  “You can always tell me anything, you know that.”

  He shook his head. “Some things even friends can’t share.”

  I thought for a minute he was going to cry. I hoped not because that was something I’d never seen Bugs do, and I didn’t know if I could handle it.

  “Sometimes I wish we were kids again. Running the streets, getting into trouble, and dreaming of Patti McDermott.”

  “Those were the good old days weren’t they.”

  He looked off toward the trees and sighed. Actually sighed. “And we can’t get them back. They’re gone forever.”

  I knew something was wrong, but I also knew Bugs was even worse than me about telling people his problems. “You ever think about going to confession?”

  I expected a quick and firm denial, but he hesitated, as if thinking. Then he shocked the shit out of me by seeming to consider it.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it lately.”

  “You should do it. It’s good for you.”

  That must have touched a nerve, because he looked at me as if I was a lunatic. “What, you telling me you go to confession? I haven’t read about any of the priests having a heart attack, and the church is still standing, so I don’t think so.”

  “I go. Not the traditional way, but I do it the way I’ve always done.”

  “I know, by yourself, on Saturday afternoon.”

  “You know about that?” I always thought my Saturday confessionals were private. “Hey, it’s better than nothing.”

  “Bullshit is what it is.”

  Before I could protest Bugs started up again. “I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been through. I’m a cop, and I’ve never killed a person, so I don’t know the guilt or the pain…but I also can’t go in for that confessional stuff. I never could.”

  “I know. Just thought it might help you, that’s all. If you want to talk to me about it, I’m available.”

  “You a priest now? Father Nicky Fusco?”

  I laughed along with him. “You’re an asshole,” I said, and took the last few bites of my sub, then tossed the paper in the trashcan. “I could eat another one right now.”

  Bugs finished a few seconds later. “No shit. I forgot how good they were. I wish we had them in New York. All we got is those stupid fuckin’ hoagies and they taste like shit.”

  I patted him on the back as we walked toward the cars. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this all out.”

  Bugs turned to me. “Nicky, I am worried. Something’s wrong. First Bobby gets killed, and sure as I’m standing here, I’m telling you, I don’t think it was what I did to him, but then, from what Borelli tells me, Marty Ferris is missing too. Something’s up.”

  I opened his car door and let him get inside. “Don’t worry, Bugs. I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything.”

  “I hope so,” Frankie said, but he knew from experience that he couldn’t trust Nicky’s explanations.

  CHAPTER 16

  Borelli Digs Deeper

  Wilmington, Delaware

  Frankie got a call from Borelli the next morning, asking him to come to the station. Frankie didn’t want to go, but he knew Borelli wasn’t going away anytime soon. He parked the car, walked across the street and up the steps, making his way to the front desk.

  “I’m here to see Jimmy Borelli.”

  Ed Mrozinski followed Bugs in, and came up behind him. “Hey, Frankie,” he said and patted him on the back.

  “Good to see you again, Mrozinski.” Frankie looked around. “You know where Borelli is?”

  “Probably in his office. Follow me.”

  Frankie followed him around the corner then down a hall with a worn-out linoleum floor, to what looked to be a small interrogation room. Mrozinski opened the door and pointed inside. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Frankie looked around while he waited. It was obvious the Wilmington Police Department didn’t have an interior decorator on staff, or even someone with taste to offer suggestions. Maybe that’s the way they wanted it—soften up the suspects by subjecting them to this. Frankie noticed the handle on the door was loose when he came in, and the legs of the table wobbled when he leaned on it. As far as the artwork—he’d seen better in Sister Leona’s fourth grade art fest.

  After fifteen minutes of waiting, Borelli came in carrying two cups of coffee. He sat in a chair across from Frankie. The chairs weren’t much, a plastic molded seat and back screwed into four metal tubes not much thicker than a crayon, and each one waiting for a fat man to put it out of its misery. If they ever brought Patsy ‘The Whale’ Moresco in for questioning, he’d destroy the department’s entire furniture budget.

  Frankie accepted the coffee, scowling as he tasted it. “What the hell, you make this yesterday?”

  “This ain’t Brooklyn.”

  “I didn’t say it had to be gourmet coffee, but hot would be nice.” Frankie set the cup on the table and pushed it to the side.

  “Sorry again about—”

  “No need for pleasantries. Let’s get this over with, because I’ve got way too much to do.”

  Jimmy sipped his coffee, set it down, then took out his notepad. “Fine by me. I was just trying to be civil.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s start with your friend.”

  “Leave Nicky out of this. He’s clean.”

  “Look, I know you guys are friends, but don’t dig yourself a hole trying to protect him. The guy is bad news.”

  “Nicky served his time.”

  “I’m not talking about the time he did here. I’m talking about the rumors from New York. And—”

  “Bullshit!”

  Borelli put his hand up. “Let me finish. I’ll forget the Woodside incident, and I’ll even forget what I heard about New York, but that still leaves me with a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I don’t buy the coincidence that six months after Nicky shows up in Wilmington, Bobby Campisi, his old arch-enemy, gets killed. And then Marty Ferris, Angela’s ex-husband, disappears. And I hav
e reliable reports that put Nicky near Marty’s house a few days earlier.”

  “I heard Marty was an asshole,” Frankie said. “He probably figured he couldn’t beat on the little girl anymore, so he left town.”

  Borelli’s head was shaking before Frankie finished. “His apartment’s still full. He has money in the bank and his car has been in front of his house for two days. Nobody leaves that way. Not on their own.”

  “Nicky’s clean. Married with a kid, and he has a good job.”

  “People like him are never clean, Frankie. You know that.”

  Frankie stood, tossed his cup into the trash. “If that’s all you got, you wasted your time and mine. I’m outta here.”

  “I’m not done with you, either. I’ve got questions regarding Bobby.”

  “What’s keeping you? Ask away.”

  Jimmy smiled. “Just waiting on DNA. It shouldn’t be long.”

  Frankie stormed out, slamming the door.

  Jimmy got up and opened the door, yelling down the hall after Frankie. “You know the old saying, Donovan—don’t leave town.”

  ***

  Ed Mrozinski came in after Frankie left. “Jimmy, I don’t get it. There’s no way he killed Bobby, and you know it.”

  “That’s not what the evidence says.”

  Ed shook his head. “He’s a cop. He’s not going to a bar, beat his brother-in-law’s ass, and then go kill him. Especially knowing his DNA is going to be all over the place.”

  “We’ll see,” Jimmy said.

  “I don’t understand you. You can’t believe he did it.”

  “He’s guilty,” Jimmy said. “End of subject.”

  ***

  Half an hour later, Borelli and Mrozinski showed up at Nicky’s workplace. Borelli flashed a badge at the receptionist and asked for Nicky Fusco.

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “Police business,” Jimmy said.

  When she left to get Nicky, Mrozinski leaned and whispered to Jimmy. “We don’t have to be pricks about it. The guy could get in trouble. Remember, he was in prison.”

  “Fuck him.”

  It only took Nicky a few minutes to come out. He looked at both of them with narrowed eyes, and then nodded. “Borelli, how are you?”

  “I’m great. You know my partner, Ed Mrozinski?”

  Nicky shook his hand. “I knew your older brother.”

  Mrozinski smiled. “I remember you, Nicky. You stopped those Harrison Street guys from kicking my ass one time.”

  “Does that mean I have a friend on the force?” Nicky smiled along with him.

  Before Mrozinski could answer, Jimmy spoke up. “I know you’ve been back a while. Seems odd you haven’t seen much of the old gang.”

  “I don’t hang out much. I mostly work and go home.”

  Jimmy nodded. “That’s probably good. Everything’s changed now. Drugs change it all.”

  “How’s that?”

  Jimmy stared at the wall as if in a trance. “Fuckin’ drugs. They’re everywhere, and they change the game. Instead of a robbery, we now get a robbery where they shoot the people. Instead of a mugging, someone’s beaten to death. Three weeks ago, we had four bodies in a parking lot on Front Street. We didn’t find anything but I know it was connected to drugs.”

  Nicky waited for more, but Jimmy didn’t say anything else, just stared at the wall. “What do you need, Detective? I’ve got work to do.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re a respectable man now. Husband, father, ex-killer.”

  Nicky tensed. “Is there a question in that?”

  “I’ve got a witness that saw you with Marty Ferris the night he died.”

  Nicky looked at him. “I didn’t know Marty was dead.”

  “He’s dead, all right. We might be the only ones who know it, but Marty Ferris is definitely dead, and you know where the body is.”

  Nicky held out his hands. “So lock me up. You’ve got a witness, I presume.”

  “Where were you the night Bobby was killed?”

  “Now you’re trying to pin Bobby on me? I thought you had Bugs pegged for that one?”

  Borelli paced. “You probably killed Bobby for the money, but you didn’t figure on Donovan getting into a fight with him at the bar. That fucked things up, didn’t it? Put the heat on him.”

  “Are we talking about Marty Ferris, or Bobby? Or are you trying to pin both murders on me. That is, if Marty is really dead.”

  “I know Marty is dead, and I’ll let you know when I can pin anything on you. It won’t be long.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. But then again, you never had many smarts.”

  “You shouldn’t have come back here, Fusco. You don’t belong down here with decent people.”

  Nicky paused, seemed to compose himself. “Get used to me, Jimmy. I’m here to stay. And I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Ever since you came back people are dying. I’ve heard the rumors. I know what you do, but I ain’t no Bugs Donovan. I don’t let killers go.”

  Nicky clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “You said one thing right. You ain’t no Bugs Donovan.” With that, he turned and walked back to his office.

  Borelli stormed out of the building and across the parking lot, Mrozinski close behind him. When they got to the car, he stopped to light a smoke.

  “What the fuck was that about?” Mrozinski asked. “Ferris isn’t dead, not that we know of, and how can you suspect Fusco for Bobby? I thought you already pegged Donovan for that?”

  “I wanted to stir things up, see what happens.”

  “You might want to let me in on things before you do them. I am your partner.”

  “I really don’t care which one of them goes down for it. They’re in this together. I know it. Get in the car. We’re going to find some evidence.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Second Thoughts

  Wilmington, Delaware

  I went to bed that night in an agitated state. Borelli shook me up, not because I thought he could catch me—he wasn’t that smart—but he gave me reason to think about what I’d done. What was wrong with me? I had a new life and I was risking it for a piece of shit like Marty Ferris. Suppose it hadn’t been Borelli? Suppose it was a good cop investigating, like Bugs. As I stared at the ceiling with my hands under the pillow, I made up my mind. I’d let Marty go. With that resolved, I prayed that Marty was still alive.

  I got up at five and started water brewing for espresso while I took a quick shower. I didn’t like missing my morning run, but I figured a day or two here and there wouldn’t hurt. Angie popped into the bathroom while I was drying, a curious look on her face.

  “You’re up early?”

  “Got a lot to do today.”

  “Don’t forget, we’re going to the movies tonight.”

  I leaned over and kissed her. “How could I forget a date with you?”

  She smacked my ass, took off her clothes and stepped into the shower. “Make me some coffee before you go. Regular, not espresso. And don’t make it so strong.”

  “You got it, babe. See you tonight.”

  On my way down Front Street I called the office and left a message, telling them I’d be late, and then I headed down Route #13 toward the canal banks. Part of me wanted Marty to be dead—it would make things easier—but deep inside, I hoped he was still alive. I promised Angie and Rosa that I wouldn’t hurt him, and I’d broken that promise. I empathized with Marty on one front—losing Angie and Rosa would be tough for any man—but it was his own fault. I still couldn’t understand how any man could hit a woman, let alone a girl.

  Traffic was hell, the normal against-the-flow drive backed up for some unknown reason. Instead of half an hour it took me nearly forty-five minutes to get there, but there wasn’t a single car on the back road leading to the canal banks, and the gates were open. I drove around, checking for other cars or signs of caretakers or maintenance men. After a second pass, I pulled up to where I
’d left Marty and got out then walked around for a final check. Nothing had been disturbed. I got my shovel and uncovered the box. I could hear Marty as I dug, making low moans, like a sick animal. When I got the box open, the stench was unbearable, like the time Mamma Rosa’s freezer full of meat went bad.

  It was a sunny day and the light must have blinded Marty at first. He called out as if he’d been saved.

  “Thank God,” he said, his voice weak and desperate. He sounded like someone in a movie on a life raft seeing a rescue boat coming for them. It was heartwarming, but I’m sure he didn’t recognize me when he said it. When I spoke, my voice brought him back to reality.

  “Glad to see you’re alive, Marty.”

  He started crying. “Jesus Christ. Don’t hurt me. Please?”

  Now I did feel sorry for him. He was pitiful. “I came to get you out.”

  “You’re letting me go? For real?”

  “I said I’m getting you out. Whether I let you go depends on you.”

  “Anything. Just tell me what you want.”

  I reached down and grabbed his hand, helping him out of the box. He looked as bad as he smelled, and I thanked God I’d come when I did; he wouldn’t have made it much longer. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then we’ll talk.” I had prepared by putting heavy plastic in the trunk, which I got out and placed over the car seat so he didn’t get it wet or stinking. I made a mental note to come back later to get rid of the box and fill in the hole later. I had to take care of Marty.

  He was silent as we rode to a job site that I knew that had running water, and most importantly, no one working. The silence was probably half distrust and half fear. I can’t say I blamed him, and it was fine with me because I didn’t want to talk either. I checked the job out, made sure no one was there, then instructed Marty to clean up, to wash his clothes and body.

  When he finished, he looked around, as if searching for an escape route.

  “Don’t think about it, Marty. I’ll put you back in the box.”

  He almost teleported to the car and got in the front seat. “What are you going to do with me?”

  I threw him some old clothes I brought with me. They’d be a little small for him, but I felt sure he wouldn’t mind. “I told you, it depends on you.”